Through the Mirror

ChatGPT 7-Step Guided Writing Exploration “Through the Mirror” April 2, 2025

I lived a long time in this place, a time long forgotten, though, and I feel that I am forgotten, as well, by all the things that surround me. Did I ever once play with you, love you, read you, hug you? Did I ever truly find delight in your child-like charms? I know I did, but it feels strange to me now, like a distant dream that refuses to resurface, leaving me full of angst and darkness and sorrow and, yes, I daresay, regret. I reach the bed that is tucked away in the left corner of the room, beside the one window. It is a twin bed, sturdy, mine. My father bought it for me. He set up the room when I was sent here by the authorities to live for a time. I remember that. I remember him loving me then. The bed is made, but that is so not like me. I never made my bed. It was too much effort. The headboard is solid and square, one of those non-descript brown headboards that have spaces for books and alarm clocks and trinkets. I would put my double pack of spearmint gum there. I love gum. I did then and I do now. I do feel that I’ve lost the delight gum once brought me, though. Spearmint or cinnamon gum. Those were my preferences. Though I stare at the headboard and can see that pack of gum, green and square, I cannot see anything else. I guess the things I placed there before are lost in the folds of time. When I was forced to leave, did I pack them? Did I take them? What did I take from this room? I turn and see the t.v. against the wall to my right. The room seems larger to me now than it really was when I lived there. More room. More space. Less pressure. The t.v. is off and cold, but I remember watching Star Trek reruns until the static came. The static always came. Then, I would drift off to sleep. There is a cat here, too. A pure white cat. A mean cat. But, I loved the cat. He ran away or I didn’t take him with me when I moved home. I don’t think I was allowed to have a cat at my mom’s house then. My step-father was allergic. I don’t care. I look at the closet near the door, which was behind me as I faced the window and the bed. The closet had those weak sliding doors with fake wallpaper. There’s a lot of chaos in there: clothes hanging and objects tossed out of sight to make my room appear clean. I didn’t clean very well as a child. I hid my mess. The door is closed, a light-weight, dark wood door that can easily be kicked in. Thankfully, that was never a fear at my dad’s house, a door being kicked in. Thankfully…

To the left of the door, against the wall opposite the closet where the mess hides, in the narrow and short alcove before the room opens up, is a mirror. I never had a mirror in my room. This mirror is old and cheap, a plate of mirrored glass with a fake, thin, gold border. Fake and empty. That is what it all feels like. The mirror reflects me as I reach for the door, but there is something not quite right with the reflection. The woman in the mirror is elegant and slender and beautiful. She is wearing a lovely, flowing, white gown, her long dark brown hair falling like a waterfall down her back and brushing her waist. She isn’t me. She is the me I wanted to be, the me I thought I’d be, the beautiful, pure, and whole me, the elegant me, the woman of strength and wonder and desire, wrapped in garments of soft feminine beauty. I let my hand fall by my side and I face the mirror fully, her movements exactly like mine, as if she is my reflection, but she is not me. She is not me. I am overweight and not demure. Brash, loud, with chopped up hair as short as I can stand it without feeling horrid and clothes that are comfortable and sufficient, nothing lovely and flowy and princess-like. As I stare at her, though, I feel nothing. A pang of sorrow passed quickly at first glance, but now there is nothing. Apathy, I guess. I’ve lived too long to regret not becoming this ideal image. I don’t think I was ever meant to become her, I just dreamt of a different, more romantic, more exciting life. That wasn’t what I was meant to have. I wasn’t meant to be her, this woman in the mirror. I was called and designed to be this flawed, broken me, this woman of faith walking the road of sanctification hand-in-hand with my Savior. Broken pieces slowly glued together with golden seals. Beauty in the cracks. Beauty in the flaws. The vessel still holds water.

There, low in the mirror, reflected in its simplicity, is the gigapet from my youth. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s not there. It was taken, stolen, lost to me forever, by the greedy hands of another. This haunts me, such a trivial thing, such a light thing, for it to carry such weight in my life. I consider its removal a punishment, to be sure. I deserved it to be taken from me. I had been a thief myself. I had stolen from others. At the time of the loss of the gigapet, I had stopped being an evil thief, stealing for pleasure, stealing because I could. I had outgrown that delinquent mood of dark greed. But, it didn’t matter. Payment must be made. I must pay the price for my greed and evil heart. The price was high. I could have had something more financially costly taken, lost a great deal more, the harvest planted from my sowing of theft was really minor in the grand scheme of things. But the emotional toll was very high. I do think of this item often. It had been a gift from my mom. It was a monkey gigapet, so rare, and I loved the little guy. I had him hanging on a tack on my closet door after anger made me flee my mom’s house, feel my abusive stepfather, and go live with my dad and a little girl, bearing pain and dysfunction all her own, had taken the gigapet from my room and, when it was discovered, tossed it away. She threw in the garbage or she gave it to another, but it was gone regardless and I would never, ever have it restored to me. Funny how much that hurts. Funny how, in the brokenness that was my life at that time, away from my mom, not even speaking to her during those many months, I held a treasure from her as so vital and that was the price I paid for being a thief myself all those years prior. Figures.

I close my eyes and sigh and when I open my eyes again, the reflected treasure is gone and all that remains is the emptiness of promise of what could have been. What could have been, Lord? Was I really called to be married? Was I really once called to be the wife of a pastor and live my life fully for you in that way? It never seemed even remotely possible, but I held onto it for so long. I clung to it. It guided my life for years, even in the terror of it. I never met a man that I felt would be gentle enough to love me and be a good, godly husband. I think that You just never showed me him. Then I gave up and You finally said, “Ok,” when I said I didn’t want that call on my life. That was that. But was it ever really my call at all? Were You preparing me for something else entirely? I am not afraid of anything except that, marriage and intimacy and all that comes with it. It truly terrifies me. I think that You knew that, but when You called me to it, or “called” me to it, it was for the sake of hope and dreams and love not being crushed. Then, it was over. The dream. The hope. The call. The belief. Over. And, truly, marriage, intimacy, all of that stuff, still terrifies me. I am far too broken for a call to marry. And You, Lord, You are amazing and You have blessed me so much. I have such a rich and wonderful life. Even on my loneliest days, You are there and I know that loneliness would also be something felt in marriage, if one is honest. I would not be a strong and healthy wife. I am too broken, too miserable for that. But You, Jesus, You give me value and worth and love every single moment of every single day and that makes life wonderful.

The princess in the mirror smiles softly, like a secret has danced across her mind, and the smile is sweet and lovely and gentle, so gentle, like a caress from a butterfly’s wing. I do not feel my mouth smiling. Why is she smiling? Why is she so graceful and peaceful and lovely and I am frowning, scowling, not meeting the beauty within the reflection before me. So, I try. I try to smile. I have to close my eyes. I have to not see such beauty as I feel such ugliness in me. But I will smile. I will softly allow my lips to turn upwards and feel the joy that such an act brings. Slowly, my mouth curves upwards and I feel the sensation move from my head down my body and there is a calm that follows my gentle smile, a calm that is warm and thick and flows through my body like syrup and I am okay. I am happy. I am alive.

I open my eyes and there I stand, reflected back at myself, my choppy haircut and my lovely eyeshadow and my comfortable leggings and long hoodie shirt…my standard, every day me. I am there, I know, and I am God’s daughter. I am a princess, even though the dress no longer fits, even though the room no longer exists, even though I cannot go home again. I am still a woman of high calling, a woman of God, a woman of faith, and sometimes I do wear the flowing garments of purity and beauty and sometimes I am dressed for war and sometimes I am broken and weeping at Jesus’ feet and sometimes we are dancing at the feast and always He is there, always protective, always loving, always strong, always leading, always safe, with His banner of love over me. I am loved, and this love is more passionate than any love earth could muster, and it is the love that many desire, and it is mine because I am my Beloved’s and He is mine.

I reach out and I open the door. I leave the past resting in that room of mess and chaos and false reflections and prices for misdeeds and brokenness and unworthiness and shattered dreams. I leave it all behind and I step into the bright sun-lit meadow, pausing beside Jesus, staring at a sea of wildflowers dancing in a gentle breeze and I take a deep, calming breath. I know that I have so much more value in my life than I can fathom, so much that is happening, that I am achieving, than I can clearly express, and I know that my Redeemer has me in His hands, safe and secure, no matter what the day brings. Now, in this meadow, as His bummer lamb, as one that He has held onto so tightly, even I cannot understand why He never let me go. But, He never did. And I have so much to be thankful for as He and I dance in the meadow in the setting sun, the air perfumed by the wildflowers we dance through, my King and I.